


Waylaid

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Extra Treat, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Possessive Behavior, Sex Pollen, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: In hindsight, reading a letter from no one that appeared on his desk in the time it took to make a cup of tea probably wasn't the wisest idea. But for Jon curiosity will always override common sense and now he has to suffer the consequences. Fortunately for him, he doesn't have to suffer alone.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 154
Collections: Heat Fic Summer 2020





	Waylaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nan/gifts).



There’s an envelope on Jon’s desk.

He stares down at it a moment, frowning. He’s very tired; there’s a faint headache building between his eyes and his mind is moving slower than usual, but he knows that there was no letter there when he left fifteen minutes ago to make himself some tea. The plan had been to head back down into the tunnels again tonight, but if the tea doesn’t help he will have to put it off. It might be best that he does, actually, even without being tired. He knows that the others still don’t trust him, and he wouldn’t put it past them to have someone watching him. Everyone has already left for the day, but would it be such a stretch for one of them to have come back and gone into the tunnels ahead of him, to hide their secrets? He thinks not. Someone got in here to leave him a little message, after all. He makes a note to ask Elias about the CCTV tomorrow. He’d said that he was working on getting it fixed long ago; surely it should be done by now.

He sets his mug on the table next to the envelope and picks it up. It has his name on in an untidy scrawl that he doesn’t recognize. It is unsealed, and when Jon opens it there is a single sheet of paper inside, folded into thirds. He pulls it out, frown deepening at the almost oily feel of the paper on his fingers, and unfolds it to read.

There is a single word written on the paper in the same scrawl as the envelope, printed in giant capital letters. _Enjoy!_ it says, followed by a large smiley face. Jon clenches his jaw and shakes his head. A prank. A stupid prank. One of them is here, then, and couldn’t resist poking at him. He sighs. No exploring tonight. No point with someone already down there, hiding whatever evidence Jon might find. He sighs again and folds the letter back up, putting it back in the envelope and tossing it in the bin. He’ll sleep here tonight and tomorrow will resume the search. Whoever is down there now might think to take whatever they want to hide from him with them, but they might not. And there may be something down there that not even his unseen enemy knows of. If there is he will find it.

It’s only when he reaches for his mug of tea that he notices the residue on his fingers. He brings his hands up to this face to get a better look. Whatever substance is on them is clear and odorless. He rubs his thumb and first finger together, noting the oily feel, and he remembers the similar feel of the letter. His stomach suddenly feels airy, light, and he can feel his heartbeat start to speed up. He stands, legs hitting the desk and knocking over the tea, liquid spilling, seeping into the statement that lies upon it. Jon barely notices. He’s almost out the door, his goal the break room and it’s sink. He’s completely oblivious to the fact that he’s wiping his hands convulsively on his trousers as he goes, too consumed with the odd not quite panic he feels, the way that his heart is starting to race, his blood moving faster in his veins and warming him from the inside out.

By the time he reaches the break room he’s sweating. He washes his hands, lathering soap up to the cuffs of his shirt, and then splashes water on his overheated face. It helps for a second, cooling his flushed skin, but then the heat comes back worse than ever and Jon does it again, then again. It doesn’t help. The heat is inescapable, making him feel dizzy and sick. Jon sways, clenching his hands on the counter to keep himself steady. The movement drags his lower body along the counter, and that’s when Jon realizes that he is hard.

Once he’s aware of it, it’s all he can think about. He realizes that the heat he’s feeling is coming not from his hands or his belly but from his groin, his balls and dick aching to be touched. To find release. It’s sunk its sickly fingers into his belly, down his legs and through his arms, leaving shocky little shivers in its wake. He trembles, clenches his hands even harder on the counter, and closes his eyes, trying to breathe through it, to find some semblance of control. He thinks that he’s managing it right up until the point that he realizes he’s moving his hips against the counter, grinding his dick into the hard surface in front of him. It doesn’t feel good, not really, but it does relieve some of that awful ache. The small bit of sanity that he’d managed to cling to slips away like it never existed. He moans and works his hips in a circular motion, rubbing and rubbing, unable to stop. Even releasing the counter to get a hand around himself would be too much; having to remove the pressure off of his dick would be unbearable. He ruts harder into the counter, grunting and gasping, nearly mindless with it, and when he comes he clenches so hard on the counter that his fingers hurt. His eyelids flutter as the pleasure spills through his body in a cool wave, washing away the heat.

Clarity returns to him, and he grimaces, peeling his clenched fingers off of the counter and backing away from it on shaking legs. The euphoria he’d felt only moments before is draining away, leaving behind a pleasant lassitude that suffuses his limbs and makes him want to lie down and close his eyes, but before he can properly enjoy it his body tenses up as the heat once again begins to build.

He’s still hard. It shouldn’t be possible, given how hard he’d just come, but he is, and when he looks down at himself there is no evidence that he’d come at all, no wet spot on his trousers that might shame him if someone were to see. _The letter,_ he thinks, and somehow knows that this is only the beginning.

He has to go somewhere, he thinks, somewhere where he can lock himself in and ride this out, where no one will find him, but even as he thinks it his hands are already moving, sliding down over his body to rub at himself through his trousers, hips bucking as the heat begins to cloud his brain again. It’s so hard to think when all he wants is to have hands on him, running over his body and making it sing. He undoes the button of his trousers and slides his hand inside, gasping at the feel of flesh on flesh, toes curling at the pleasure of having a hand on him, even if it is only his own. He strokes himself fast and hard, body so tight with the need to come that it feels like it might snap in half.

Except he can’t. No matter how he touches himself or how good it feels he doesn’t come, just tightens more and more as the arousal spirals ever higher. He aches with it, balls drawn up and tight and dick practically pulsing, and still nothing happens. Jon moans loudly and works his hand harder over himself. It’s too fast to feel good but he can’t stop. _Please,_ he thinks. 

“Jon?” The voice pierces through the fog surrounding his brain, and Jon opens his eyes – when had he closed them? He can’t remember – to find Elias standing at the entrance to the room, eyes wide as they take in the sight of him. He starts to say something else, maybe ask just what he thinks he’s doing, but Jon doesn’t care, can’t care. All he sees is the way that Elias’ eyes have fixed on where he’s still desperately working himself. The hard swallow he gives before he opens his mouth to speak.

Elias wants him. The knowledge settles into Jon’s brain like it has always been there, and he welcomes it. Elias wants him, and right now Jon wants, too. Wants and needs and does not care about anything other than relieving the ache that throbs through him.

“Elias,” he says in a voice that sounds nothing like his own, low and hoarse and filled with a dark sort of lust. He takes a step forward, then another, hand still wrapped around his dick. Elias’ eyes move from his mouth to his hand then up to his eyes. Jon knows how he must look – red-faced and panting, eyes blown and hazy, and he sees the way Elias responds to it. He takes another step forward.

“What are you doing?” Elias says, and puts up a hand as if to halt Jon’s progress. Jon feels himself smile, a slow, predatory sort of thing that feels odd on his face, and puts his own hand out. The moment their fingers brush he moans. Elias’ mouth parts and for a moment he presses back, fingers stroking along Jon’s. The touch is barely there, only the lightest amount of pressure, but it is all Jon needs. He moans again, fingers clenching on Elias’ and gripping hard as he comes again, back arching, hand tightening on himself in reaction, pleasure shooting down his legs in bright streams. Elias watches him, eyes dark.

When it’s over Jon’s body abruptly goes loose and he slumps, Elias stepping forward just in time to keep him from spilling to the floor. Jon leans against him, liking the easy way that he holds him up. He knows he shouldn’t trust Elias – that there is every possibility that he is the one who killed Gertrude and hid her body in the tunnels, and if not he knows something about who did – but he _does_ trust that he isn’t the one who has done this to him. The shock in his eyes at Jon’s state had been too real. Jon supposes he’d been working late, heard all the noise he was making and gone to investigate; or maybe he’d stayed late on purpose with the intent of putting a stop to Jon’s investigation for good – he is the boss, after all. The why of it doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that he is here, and now he’s as caught in this as Jon is. Already Jon can feel himself starting to go foggy again, to feel his brain sink under the weight of the lust that still consumes his body.

“Jon,” Elias says, and brings his hands up to his arms, possibly to push him away.

“Don’t,” Jon says, “please.”

He presses himself against Elias with a small, helpless noise, unable to keep himself from doing it. It feels so good to have another body against his, better than his hand had been. He wants Elias’ hands on him, wants them all over him more than anything. His body yearns toward Elias and the relief that he instinctively knows he will bring, and before he’s even aware of it he’s completely melded them together, hooking his ankle around the back of Elias’ calf so that he can pull himself even closer.

Elias gasps, and his hips twitch back into Jon. Jon finds himself smiling, triumph curling through him. “You want me,” he says, the words strange and thick on his tongue.

He feels the shiver of reaction that goes through Elias and knows what it means, but it takes him several moments to let out a soft “yes.”

“Then take me,” Jon says, and he knows that he’s said the right thing – maybe the only right thing – when Elias closes his eyes and nods. When he opens them again they are blazing.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and commanding and containing nothing of the hesitance from just a few moments ago. This time it’s Jon who shivers, eyelids fluttering.

“Touch me,” he says, “please.” He pushes his hips forward to indicate where, but Elias either doesn’t get the hint or chooses to ignore it. Instead he slides his hands up Jon’s arms to his neck, stroking lightly. Jon tilts his head to give him better access, and this time Elias takes the clear invitation, leaning forward to follow the path of his hands with his mouth.

Jon moans and one of his hands leaves Elias’ arse to slide into his hair, holding him there. _Yes,_ he thinks as Elias’ lips move over the sensitive skin of his neck, as his fingers continue to slide upward, mapping out his face. They stroke over his chin, his cheeks, his closed eyelids. They linger there a long time, stroking with a light, nearly reverent touch, and Jon doesn’t know why but it’s that light stroking along his eyes that sends him over the edge, crying out in a hoarse voice as his hips jerk against Elias’.

When it’s over he feels wrung out and oversensitive, body flinching from the lightest touch but still so very hard. So very needy. “Please,” he says, the only thing he feels capable of saying anymore. “Please.”

“Shh,” Elias says, stroking over his face and down his neck, calming him like he would a startled cat. “I’m going to give you what you need. But not here.”

Jon scowls, but follows Elias obediently when he releases him and walks away. There’s a part of him – the sane part, the one that returns for a little while with each successive orgasm – that is cringing at how needy he’s being, how desperate. That part of him is appalled at how he’s acting; at how he’s already willing to do anything if Elias will only put his hands and mouth all over him. That part is very quickly being eaten up by whatever the substance that was on the letter has done to him, whatever it has woken up inside of him. _That_ part couldn’t care less about Jon’s pride, not if it means waiting even one second longer before Elias is inside of him.

By the time they get to his makeshift bedroom that part has completely taken over, and it is the new Jon Sims that pushes Elias down onto the cot and climbs on top of him. That rocks into the erection he can feel prodding at his arse, moaning the entire while like the only thing he can think of is getting it inside of him. It _is_ the only thing he can think of, and he fumbles with Elias’ trousers, hands stiff and clumsy with almost debilitating lust. He needs them off, needs them both divested of any remaining barriers so that they can move together skin on skin.

Elias grips his hands, stopping him. He gently pushes him off of his lap, ignoring the noise of protest he makes.

“Do you want me to help you?” he asks, voice soft but stern, almost scolding. It’s a far cry from the quiet, unsure Elias of not even an hour ago, but it’s as if something inside of him has been unlocked as surely as it has in Jon.

Jon nods.

“If you can’t ask for what you want then perhaps you shouldn’t have it.” Elias says mildly, and Jon feels the blood rush to his face, further heating already warm skin. He casts his eyes to the side.

“Please,” he says in New Jon’s voice, hoarse and desperate. “Please, Elias, please help me. Please f-fuck me.”

Elias smiles. “Very good,” he says approvingly, and Jon feels a curl of warmth go through him that has nothing to do with whatever he was dosed with.

Elias undoes his trousers and shoves them down. Jon’s eyes immediately go to his dick, hard and curving slightly towards his belly. _Yes_ , Jon thinks and steps forward. He pushes Elias back down onto the cot, amused at the way his eyes briefly go wide before he sits down. _Didn’t see that coming, did you?_

He makes quick work of his own trousers, kicking them to the side, and then crawls back into Elias’ lap and sits down.

He’s too eager to go slow, too needy to try and take it easy, and it stings a bit, but the sting is nothing compared to the way it feels to have Elias inside him, filling him up. Giving him what he needs. “Yes,” he says, and begins to rock.

Jon’s body wants to go fast but Elias makes him go slow with an iron grip on his hips, fingers digging in hard enough that Jon knows they’ll leave bruises. He’s glad. He wants Elias to mark him; wants to leave this encounter covered in the proof of it.

As if he can hear his thoughts Elias leans forward; puts his mouth on Jon’s neck and sucks hard at the sensitive skin, raising a bruise. Jon tilts his head to give him better access, his mouth opening and pouring out a litany of _yes_ and _please_ and _harder, harder, more._ Elias does as he asks, then sets his teeth to the bruise and bites down. Jon moans loudly and tries once again to make him move faster, but Elias refuses. “No, Jon,” he says into his neck. “We do this my way.”

Jon squirms, nearly mindless with the need to come. His body feels like it’s on fire; he needs the release to quench it, if only for a few moments, or he’ll go mad. “Please,” he begs. “Please, I need, I need-“

“I know,” Elias says. He licks a trail up Jon’s neck and then sucks his earlobe into his mouth, and Jon gasps and bucks against him. One of his hands finds its way to his dick and begins to stroke in a quick, almost punishing rhythm; Elias covers it with one of his own and forces him to slow down, to match the barely there movement of Elias inside him.

Elias’ mouth returns to his neck; he begins to press sucking little kisses all over it, mouth moving as slowly as the rest of him. Jon’s head falls back and he whines low in his throat, the light kisses undoing him in a way that nothing else has. He feels like he’s being cherished, almost worshipped, and while part of him wants to run away from that feeling the rest of him opens to it. It feels like exactly what he needs, satisfies him in a way that sex alone can’t. He winds the fingers of his free hand into Elias’ hair and grips tight, not trying to stop him or urge him to continue but merely to hold on, to try to keep himself from shaking apart. 

After an eternity Elias pulls back. “Jon,” he says. “I know you can do as I say. Can’t you?”

“I-I’ll try.”

“No. You will. You will because you want to please me. Don’t you?”

Jon closes his eyes and nods.

“That’s good. That’s very good. Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Jon does as he’s told. His eyelids feel heavy but he cracks them open anyway and looks up at Elias, meeting his gaze. “That’s it,” Elias says, croons really, and continues to move their hands over Jon’s erection, sliding them sweet and slow as he tilts his hips in the smallest of increments, barely fucking him at all. He seems intent on wrecking Jon completely; every time that Jon gets close to coming he stops, waits until Jon has cooled down and then begins to move again, still with that same slow, gentle pace. It goes on and on until Jon starts to believe that they’ve been doing this forever; that they’ll keep doing it until the end of the world.

At some point the hand on his hip slides around his back, not so much holding him in place as holding him up, and Jon feels like his bones are melting, like his entire body is liquefying. His orgasm is so gradual that he’s already in it before he knows it’s begun; it seems to last forever, his body suspended at the height of pleasure, strung out and helpless as he comes and comes. His vision narrows to Elias’ eyes, boring into his, and he holds his gaze with a panicky sort of desperation, feeling like if he loses that anchor he will float away on his own pleasure and never be found again. It frightens him as much as it exhilarates him. Distantly he hears the sound of his own voice, his loud moans mingling with Elias’ quieter ones, but the ringing in his ears all but drowns them out.

An endless amount of time later, Jon finally comes down. He’s leaning heavily against Elias, boneless, both of them breathing hard. Elias is still holding him upright somehow – how is he managing it Jon doesn’t know, but he’s grateful just the same – running one of his hands soothingly up and down his back and murmuring into his ear. Jon’s head is still fuzzy, but he doesn’t care. He’s sore and spent and covered in his own come, and it’s such a relief that he actually feels tears prick his eyes. He closes them and rests his head against Elias’ shoulder, feeling his overstimulated, exhausted body beginning to shut down, pushing him towards sleep.

Elias takes control the same way he’d taken control earlier; he cleans him up and lays him on the cot, covers him with a blanket. Jon thinks that he should say something, should rouse himself enough to try and make some sense out of the night, out of what happened. At the very least he should try to talk to Elias now that he’s back to himself. Try to sort out what just happened and what they are going to do about it. He’s asleep before he even finishes the thought.

~****~

As soon as Elias is sure that Jon is asleep, he touches him, first running his fingers through his sweaty, disheveled hair and then trailing them down his face and to his neck, where a ring of lovely bruises stand out against his skin. He might be able to hide most of them if he wears a shirt with a high collar, but there is one, the most livid of all, that will reach discolored fingers past the neck of any shirt Jon might own. Elias presses down on this last one and Jon makes a soft sound in his sleep, fingers twitching, but he doesn’t pull away. Elias smiles.

He’d known that Jon would be staying to explore the tunnels; despite his promises to the contrary, Elias knew Jon had no intention of stopping his investigation. He’d stayed late himself for the pleasure of watching his frustration when his search bore no fruit. He had not expected both of their plans to be derailed by the delightful little surprise waiting on Jon’s desk.

He doesn’t know who left the gift for Jon to find, but he has his suspicions. There are only a few who know about how easy it is for him to keep an eye on things around here, after all, and while the substance the letter was coated in was for Jon, that the message was for him was all too obvious. He supposes that something will have to be done about that; first Jane Prentiss and now this, and while this was beneficial to him in the long run, opening Jon to him in the most unexpected way, he does not need anyone getting ideas about what else they could do if they snuck into his Archive undetected. And while he wants Jon to encounter this particular culprit again – needs him to, in fact – he is unwilling to put his Archive at risk a second time.

Perhaps he’ll send someone to her in thanks, he thinks, not one of his just yet but another of the staff, someone unimportant who will not be missed. One should always reply to a gift.

It’s only polite.


End file.
